Like Beatrix Potter, Wittgenstein held a sweaty mother once too
		with an armature of lines
	Oh god yes & didn’t he feel that like a kid playfully moved by a tornado & plopped down into a watered-down cotillion,
		truant semester of brain nerves & deviled eggs & so we are awful little people with awful little dreams…
	Well, don’t get in a fuck about it thinks Beatrix crapped out on a diagonal, with car swerves & mad-cap shooting
		at the height of a person’s heart
	Anyway the glamour & crash of Wittgenstein without blood or Black Russians Delineates the helixes of Beatrix
		“my speedy dessert season” An armistice wrested from the dying bunnies
	& splayed like the fourth of July Her old bean primed for love & petrified like spring girls in weight rooms at 14 Hold on pussy hold on
		There you go. Now you’re fine.
	Beatrix’s affections return tenacious & slow like spanked kids or continental drift All this & she is deaf